We met when I was fourteen and awkward. I barely remember what I was like back then, but I remember her – slim and energetic in 90’s grunge flannel and spacious jeans. The story has become our family’s lore, which our kids can recite just as well as I can recount the tale of my own parents’ meeting. We were assigned to a group in forensics where I played a dead body while she and a friend played mourners. She witnessed an ill-timed nose picking of mine, which is why she wanted out of the group.
Proximity turned my awkwardness endearing. Three years of high school, followed by four years of college, all on the same forensics team, stuck for hours upon hours in fifteen-passenger vans. It’s no wonder we built a connection, then kept reinforcing it. Our story is pretty much the opposite of the star-crossed lovers archetype. Our eyes didn’t meet with crackles of cosmic energy. She was the woman I knew best at the time I was interested in hooking arms with someone and putting together an adult life. But I like that better. It wasn’t on accident. Our life was intentional. We started growing together a long time ago. She knew about that embarrassing little nose-picking thing five years before we even started dating, and she still kept orbiting back to me in tighter and tighter circles until we formed our own little heavenly body, suspended in the sky with all the other cosmic forces.
So, this is Valentine’s Day number 20 since we met, 18 since we become friendly, 15 since we started dating, and 12 since we were married. And, man, I still think she’s great. She’s a skilled mom, a successful business owner, and she’s hot. She’s generous with the foot rubs, and she tells me I’m funny and talented, even when I have trouble believing it. Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie. You’re the best.
|Happy Valentine's Day!|